


The Moriarty Club

by phqyd_roar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, Crack, Drinking Games, F/M, Fic within a Fic, Friendship, Humour, I named Dimmock Steve cos it's funny, Johnlock as main pairing, M/M, Multi, Multiple Pairings, Oral Sex, Sherlock's riding crop, Smut, fiception, ficwriter!Moriarty, much swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-14 10:49:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11206527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phqyd_roar/pseuds/phqyd_roar
Summary: There are two rules to being a member of The Moriarty Club:1. Don't let Sherlock find out; and2. Don't ask who the real Moriarty is.John sets out to break both of them.AU in which instead of being a consulting criminal, Moriarty is a celebrated fic writer who writes numerous and varied real person fic about Sherlock. John and the Scotland Yard gang reads them.





	1. Correct Me, Doctor

John’s first pub night with the lads (and ladies) of Scotland Yard was going just fine until he got back to their booth to find all its occupants bent over their phones, chortling with glee.

“There’s a new Moriarty story! Oh God, it’s got John Watson in it! This is even better than the Mycroft one!”

Drunk as John was, that combination of words coming from the recently arrived Anderson’s mouth made John’s face screw up in confusion. He carefully set his fresh pint down on the table, wincing as it splashed anyway.

“‘Scuse me?” John said, tipping his head.

Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson all froze with identical expressions of horror.

“Um,” said Anderson, looking to Lestrade in an obvious plea. Lestrade only glared back at him.

John decisively tackled Anderson for his phone. Much unnecessary yelling and a short scuffle later, John had his prize - Anderson’s phone open to a blog page:

___________________________________

 

_thereal_moriarty_ _posted on 17.05.2010_

**_NEW FIC: Correct Me, Doctor_ **

_Rating: Explicit_

_Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson ft. Sherlock’s riding crop_

_Warnings: slash, fetish, mild BDSM, anal sex_

_Summary: John Watson rises to the challenge._

_Disclaimer: Any resemblance this may bear to real persons or situations is strictly coincidence ;)_

_READ HERE_

___________________________________

 

“What the!!” John spluttered. “What the _flaming bleeding_ hell is this?”

“Alright,” said Lestrade, sounding resigned, tipping back the last of his fifth (sixth? seventh?) pint. “Before we say anything, you’ve got to promise: don’t say anything to Sherlock. That’s the first rule.”

“Who is ‘the real Moriarty’?”

“The second rule,” inserted Donovan, “is don’t ask who the real Moriarty is.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because it’ll ruin it, and we don’t want it ruined. It’s the only fun we get working with Mr. I’m-so-smart, Don’t-fucking-breathe, You’re-wearing-yer-mum’s-knickers Holmes.”

John snorted. “Alright, fair play. But what has it got to do with me?”

“See, thereal_moriarty is a fan fiction writer. He’s really bloody famous on the internet, started off writing Harry Potter fiction back in ‘03,” said Anderson knowledgeably, “and he writes about a lot of fandoms, you know, Doctor Who, Lord of the Rings, that sort of thing, some celebrities too - but the point is that he writes about Sherlock. Having sex. With people we know.”

“Well, then, he’s got to know Sherlock. Sherlock’s not _that_ famous,” said John.

“Probably,” Lestrade agreed, “especially as he’s got Sherlock pretty much down to a tee. Could be any of us, but we don’t want to know who it is, because it’s a great laugh, and if we knew who was writing it then it would just be awkward as balls.”

“Okay,” said John. “So, uh, this one’s about me. And Sherlock. Having sex.”

“By George, I think he’s got it,” said Donovan to Anderson, who snickered and nudged her appreciatively.

“Yeah,” said Lestrade, trying not to smirk. “You, uh, want to read it?”

John licked his lips in trepidation. 

“You reckon I’m drunk enough?”

“Go on, you know you want to.”

John chuckled helplessly, torn between being sensible and being drunk. He chugged down a quarter of his Stella as he thought about it, and the balance tipped decidedly towards being drunk.

“Alright. Let me see what ‘the real Moriarty’ has got me doing with Sherlock.”

“You should read it out loud, mate,” suggested Anderson. “We haven’t read it either.”

“This is not how I pictured this night going,” mused John, as he tapped on the link.

___________________________________

 

_Sherlock Holmes was having a very trying day. There were no cases on, and no one was home, either. His mind refused to be still. He lay upside down on the worn, comfortable sofa, tracing the same predictable patterns on the black and white Victorian wallpaper._

_“BORED!” He cried, impressing no one._

___________________________________

 

“This is exactly what Sherlock does!” John stopped reading to exclaim in amazement.

“I know, right,” said Lestrade, looking as chuffed as though he was the one who had written it. (Maybe he was.) 

“And how does he know what our wallpaper looks like?” John wondered, feeling mildly disturbed. 

“Hurry up and read,” said Donovan.

___________________________________

 

_Having counted out 53 cracks on the ceiling, 7 different mold cultures, and a rusty pipe in various parts of the flat, Sherlock turned his under-engaged mind to the one area of his home he had thus far refrained from entering: John’s room._

_____________________________________

 

“Stay the fuck out of my room, Sherlock,” added John, scowling.

___________________________________

 

_Sherlock entered John’s room, careful not to disturb the dust patterns. He did this for his own peace of mind rather than out of any fear of discovery - John was remarkably unobservant about things like that. Sherlock perused the room with bright interest, eager to discover new details about his enigmatic roommate._

___________________________________

 

“Enigmatic?” Said John. “ _Me?_ ” 

___________________________________

 

_John Watson was_

___________________________________

 

“Jesus, I can’t read this,” said John, laughing as he handed the phone to Lestrade.

Glancing at it, Lestrade said, “Oh I see, want the flattery to come from someone else, do you?

___________________________________

 

_John Watson was the most fascinating creature Sherlock had yet to meet. He was a tangled knot of contradictions: adventurer and homemaker, killer and healer, fiery temper and genial smiles. When John was near, Sherlock hardly ever became bored. Even sitting in their living room, unassumingly reading the paper, John Watson gave off an air of unpredictability akin to a badly produced hand grenade._

_________________________________ ____

 

All four of them burst out laughing, noisily clinking their pint glasses together to John’s new title. 

“Do you need defusing, Dr. Watson? Or do you need…deducing?”

“Shut the fuck up,” said John, straight-faced.

___________________________________

 

_John’s room was similar to its owner. The hospital corners on the bed and tidily folded clothing in the wardrobe spoke of John’s military years, whereas the slim photo album tucked into the bottom left drawer barely concealed his sentimentality. It was beneath John’s disorderly socks, however, that Sherlock struck gold._

___________________________________

 

Lestrade stopped reading to give John a stern look.

“John.”

“Yes?”

“Do you have an illegal handgun?”

“No!” Said John, vehemently, shaking his head trustworthily.

Lestrade gave him an utterly unconvinced look and continued reading.

___________________________________

 

_Sherlock pulled out a sleek, heavy handgun with a British Army serial number on the side, turning it over in his hands to examine it. It was loaded, the safety on. Clearly a relic of John’s army days, one not quite so prim and neat as his housekeeping habits. Duality, indeed._

_Sherlock curved his fingers around the trigger and aimed at the wall, picturing a younger, tanner John in army fatigues, lifting his weapon and aiming among blazing sunlight and endless sand dunes. He itched to try it. He thumbed the safety off experimentally, and used it to scratch his head._

___________________________________

 

“He fucking what?” John exploded. “Even an idiot would know not to do that!”

“Maybe it furthers the plot,” said Anderson.

___________________________________

 

_Preoccupied with his new toy, Sherlock didn’t hear the front door and was only alerted of John’s return at footsteps on the second floor landing. He froze. If he left the room now, he would be caught red handed. Calculations sprung up in his mind of the time it would require for him to replace the gun as he had found it and the time it would take John to get up the stairs and open the door. He cursed, uncharacteristically bemoaning both John’s unimpeded step and his tightly tailored clothing. Then he stuffed the gun down his pants._

___________________________________

 

“He fucking what?” Said John again, close to tears at the very idea. “He stuffed a loaded gun where he keeps his family jewels?”

“Don’t worry about Sherlock’s junk, John, nothing’s going to happen to it until you get your hands on it,” said Donovan crisply.

___________________________________

 

_“Hello, John, you’re home early, did you get the milk I asked for?” Sherlock asked briskly as soon as John walked into the room._

_John blinked. “You didn’t ask me for milk - what are you doing in my room?”_

_“Oh, an experiment. Very important, I must check on the other components now, excuse me.”_

_Sherlock made to circle round John, but John sidestepped to block him, the force of the nudge causing the gun in his pants to clatter to the carpet._

_____________________________________

 

“Oooh! The cat’s out of the bag!”

“The gun’s out of the pants!”

“John’s going to get pissed off now.”

“John’s going to ‘correct’ him.”

“I’m rethinking why I’m doing this,” remarked John.

___________________________________

 

_John went very quiet. Sherlock’s heart plummeted all the way to his feet and also clattered out onto the floor. An angry John was manageable, even amusing - but a quiet John was dangerous._

_“What experiment merits a firearm in your trousers?” John lifted his eyes from the floor to Sherlock, no hint of mirth in his deep blue irises._

_“Ah,” said Sherlock, torn between digging himself a deeper hole with further outlandish claims and just admitting to being a ridiculous human being. “Don’t know how that got there.”_

_“Astonishing,” said John, flatly. Glancing once more between the weapon on the floor and the squirming detective, John turned sharply and headed downstairs._

_“John, wait!” Sherlock cried, rushing after him. “Wait. I. I shouldn’t have done that. Wait!”_

_John ignored him, heading straight for the front door. It seemed inevitable that Sherlock would lose the most interesting man he had ever met due only to his own stupidity, when John tripped, possibly for the second time, over the riding crop sticking hazardously out of the umbrella stand. He cursed and stopped to look at it._

_Sherlock held his breath, not for the first time unable to predict John’s actions. After a moment, John pulled the riding crop out of the umbrella stand, expression unreadable._

_“I’m not the only one with questionable toys in this house.”_

_“No,” Sherlock agreed, oddly breathless._

_“But I don’t,” John brandished the riding crop, “go around playing with other people’s stuff. How old are you? Seriously?”_

_“I’ve always been a very badly behaved child,” Sherlock admitted, shifting, growing hot at the sight of John all riled up and fingering Sherlock’s riding crop._

_John did not seem to know how to respond to that, evidently having not expected Sherlock to so readily agree. He swallowed, staring at Sherlock intensely._

___________________________________

 

“It’s happening,” said Anderson, rubbing his hands together. “The sex.”

John gave him a disturbed look. He tried not to read too much into how eager Anderson was to hear about John and Sherlock having sex.

___________________________________

 

_Sherlock cleared his throat, undoing another button on his shirt to better breathe._

_“Why don’t you. Correct me, Doctor?”_

_John’s gaze traveled between Sherlock’s eyes and the exposed triangle of Sherlock’s chest._

_“How - how should I do that?”_

_“You seem to have already found the way,” Sherlock murmured, his gaze flicking pointedly to the riding crop._

_John looked lost, for a moment, or perhaps overwhelmed, and Sherlock was seized with a moment of panic, afraid that he had miscalculated and that John would only back away, laughing nervously. Sherlock would never get over the mortification. But when John looked up at him again, it was with steel in his expression, that soldierly competence and unquestionable command that made Sherlock weak in the knees._

_“Well then,” said John evenly. “What are you waiting for? Bend over and take your trousers off.”_

___________________________________

 

“Say it, John, say it!” Donovan begged, giggling madly. “I want to hear it in your voice.”

“What? Bend over and take your trousers off?”

“Oh God,” Donovan gasped, wiping at her eyes as she tipped her head back against the chair. “This is so good.”

“I don’t say that to Sherlock Holmes, but I’ve certainly said it before,” John said.

“Too much information,” said Lestrade, “More on your explicit anal sex with Sherlock, now.”

___________________________________

 

_Sherlock could feel the heat from John’s proximity as he bared himself and bent over the arm of the sofa, the clench of his fingers in the cushions the only sign of his nerves. His naked flesh tingled as he anticipated a blow, and instead he gasped when he felt John’s rough palm brush over the plump curve of his arse._

___________________________________

 

Lestrade paused to stare at John, curious as to his reaction.

John was not talking. John was listening with a hand pressed over his mouth and a complicated, screwed up expression. He flapped his other hand for Lestrade to continue, and Lestrade shrugged and carried on.

___________________________________

 

_“God,” muttered John, his voice thick with some undetermined sentiment._

_Before Sherlock could pause to evaluate, the first blow rushed through the air, raising a line of heat across the plumpest part of Sherlock’s arse. After every few blows, John stopped to rub his hand over Sherlock’s heated skin, roughly spreading his buttocks and brushing a thumb through the crevice, Sherlock letting out shaky whimpers far more embarrassing than the sounds he had made at being beaten._

___________________________________

 

“That’s enough gay for me today,” said Lestrade, handing the phone over to Donovan.

“There’s never enough gay for me,” said Donovan, taking it.

___________________________________

 

_Sherlock heard the clatter of the riding crop hitting the floor, then John’s hands were on his hips, pulling him back to grind denim clad cock against his sensitized skin._

_“John,” he moaned, almost shaking._

___________________________________

 

“Have you got to do the voices, Sally?” John winced.

“Got to do the story justice, John.”

___________________________________

 

_“Sherlock,” said John, equally breathless. “Can I?”_

_“God, yes.”_

_“Fuck.”_

_John fumbled for a bottle of lube and a condom._

___________________________________

 

“Ah, fiction magic, always granting lube and condoms wherever and whenever spontaneous sex is called for,” commented Anderson.

“I just think it’s weird how the characters are always moaning each others’ names. Do you do that? Do people do that?” Said Lestrade. “I mean, it’s pretty redundant unless there’s someone else there that you could be talking to.”

“I don’t envy your wife,” said Donovan dryly.

“Oi!”

___________________________________

 

_John’s deft fingers easily found Sherlock’s prostate, brushing and stroking in a firm but gentle rhythm that quickly reduced Sherlock to incoherence._

_“John, oh god, John please!”_

_“Shhh. I’ve got you. Breathe now.”_

_As Sherlock exhaled deliberately, John pushed the head of his cock into Sherlock’s loosened anus, which clenched at the intrusion._

___________________________________

 

“Right. When it said, explicit, it meant, _explicit_. Wow.” John rubbed his face, blinking back the buzz of alcohol. “There you go.”

“Should I stop?” Enquired Donovan, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Are you really asking?”

“Not really, no. I’m quite into this.” Donovan grinned unapologetically.

“God, go on then.”

___________________________________

 

_John pressed kisses against Sherlock’s nape as he slowly inched forward, fingers tangling in Sherlock’s hair._

_“I’m not sure,” he whispered._

_Sherlock’s stomach did a flip._

_“I’m not sure this is getting the right message through.”_

_“What?” Said Sherlock._

_“Are you sorry for playing with my gun while I’m out?”_

_Sherlock purred, pressing back and rolling his hips as a diversion tactic._

_“Are you going to keep me entertained?”_

_John snapped his hips back and forth, effectively regaining the upper hand._

_“I’m not. Here. To entertain you,” he growled as he fucked Sherlock into the cushions. “Is that clear?”_

___________________________________

 

“Geugh! Said Sherlock.” Read Donovan.

“What?” John interrupted, frowning. “Sherlock said what?”

“It’s a bunch of letters meant to indicate he let out some sound,” Donovan explained, showing John the screen. 

“That sounds a lot less sexy when you say it out loud,” said John, shaking his head, replacing his hand over his mouth in the same position he had maintained while listening to the sexual portion of the story.

“Use your imagination.”

“Ha, no thanks.”

___________________________________

 

_“John, JohnJohnJohnJohnJohn,” Sherlock babbled, lifting his hips to meet John’s thrusts._

_“Say it,” John demanded. “Say you’re sorry.”_

_“I’m- John- I’m sorry!” Sherlock managed, utterly unconcerned as to what he was saying, absorbed in the sensation of being thoroughly fucked by John Watson._

_“Say you won’t do it again.”_

_“Fuck, John! Yes. Whatever you like.”_

_“Good boy,” said John, and bit a bruise into Sherlock’s neck, slipping his hand down to pump Sherlock’s dripping cock._

_Sherlock’s vision went white for a moment as his world exploded with pleasure._

___________________________________

 

“Seriously,” said Lestrade, shaking his head. “As I keep saying, fucking unrealistic expectations. You girls keep reading about men like John here, making your world explode and all that, and then you get all pissy when I, a regular human being, can’t _literally_ blow your fucking mind.”

“Tough luck, mate,” said John, finally removing his hand from his mouth, anticipating the sex descriptions being over. “I can’t help being this glorious, it just happens.”

___________________________________

 

_“You know that things said during sex doesn’t count,” Sherlock informed John, a long while later, after having recovered from the most overwhelming orgasm he had had in recent years._

_John shifted, tightened his arm around Sherlock’s middle, and grinned._

_“Then I’ll just have to correct you again, won’t I?”_

___________________________________

 

“That’s it,” Donovan announced. “That’s all. The end.”

“Well, John?” Said Anderson. “What do you think? Accurate reflexion of your sexual prowess?”

“Oh, yes, definitely,” answered John. “Though as a fellow blogger-”

“Who also writes solely about Sherlock.”

“Who also writes about Sherlock,” John conceded, “I can see why he has a wider readership. Crime isn’t quite so sexy, is it?”

“I would get laid far more if it was,” lamented Donovan.

“The descriptions,” John said, wincing, to the hysterical laughter of the others, “while a little florid, are fairly well written. And up to the point where me and Sherlock start randomly shagging, the characterisation was all right too. Yeah. 9/10.”

“Ayyyy,” chorused the rest of the table, lifting their pints once again. “Welcome to the Moriarty Club, John.”

“It’s a club?”

“Of course. We’ve got rules, pay attention, yer bellend.”

“I’m not sure I want to join, to be honest.”

“Too late. Can’t back out now you know what’s going on.”

“Or you’ll kill me?”

“And cover up the murder with our superior knowledge of crime.”

“Sherlock will solve it.”

“Not when he’s too busy shagging the people lined up at your door!”

“Christ. I better get to read a story about someone else next time. Greg, for instance.”

“All in good time, Dr. Watson, all in good time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There could be more of this. If you want more of this. Let me know what and who you want to see. ;)


	2. Not My Division

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thereal_moriarty posted on 25.05.10  
> NEW FIC: NOT MY DIVISION  
> Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/Gregory Lestrade  
> Rating: Explicit  
> Warnings: bribery, mentions of drugs, fellacio, office sex  
> Summary: “Why the hell should I let you onto my crime scene?”  
> Disclaimer: Any resemblance this may bear to real persons or situations is strictly coincidence ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I nearly killed myself laughing while writing this several times over. I hope you lot enjoy it as much as I do.

 

John had found it very difficult to look Sherlock in the eye after reading that illustrious tale. Every time Sherlock made any comment about being bored, a manic grin would pull at the sides of John’s lips, and he would have to hurriedly duck his head to hide it. Even without stimuli, the graphic imagery would pop into his head at the most inopportune moments - on the bus, at work, in the bloody shower. While Sherlock dropped to his hands and knees to examine a suspect’s carpet, John’s first thought was “he does have a rather plump arse.”

John stepped closer to Lestrade and shared this thought with him. Lestrade gave him a dubious glance, replying, “Can’t relate, man.”

“I’m  _ not _ gay!” John whispered fervently. “Just saying!”

Lestrade grinned at him. Donovan wandered closer and asked what was going on, so John shared his observation with her instead. Donovan nodded appreciatively.

“You gonna give it a workout?”

“I’m not gay!”

“Have you got anything, Sherlock?” Lestrade called, recovering a modicum of his professionalism.

“If by ‘anything’ you mean that I have identified the murderer while the majority of Scotland Yard sleepwalks through their day and possibly their entire lives, then, yes.” Sherlock straightened with an important swish of his coat. “Arrest the sister-in-law, they’ve been having an affair and she’s pregnant.”

“Seriously?” Said Donovan. “Is this Coronation Street?”

“You know what they say about literature and life, Sally,” said Sherlock, already bored. 

John, knowing what he did, had a huge struggle not to grin again. He distracted himself by tuning in to Sherlock’s brilliant deductions, and later, followed him home.

Sherlock dived straight into his bedroom not to emerge again, as he had not slept a wink for the three days they’d been on the case. John had a shower and some biscuits and settled in to type up the case while his memory was still fresh. Just as he was starting to get bored, his phone buzzed with a new text.

**From: Greg Lestrade**

_ Club meeting, The Lion’s Head, 7.  _ _ Be there or be very sad about missing out.  _

John grinned at his phone as he hastily typed back.

_ What exactly would I be missing out? _

Greg soon replied: 

_ You know we can’t talk about this over uncoded texts. Official Secrets Act, etc. _

John checked his watch, and whistled cheerfully as he headed up to his bedroom to change. As John bounded down the stairs, Sherlock emerged from his lair with narrowed eyes and ruffled curls, wearing nothing but a blue silk robe haphazardously tied over black boxers.

“You’re going out.”

“Excellent deduction,” John congratulated him with a warm smile.

“It’s not a date, you’re wearing your ‘I won’t be bothered about throwing up over these’ shoes.”

John automatically glanced down at his lime-coloured trainers, which he was admittedly less than fond of, but would feel guilty about throwing away.

“Yeah, just meeting some mates for a drink.” 

John tried to be vague, but it obviously backfired. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed even further. 

“Oh, it’s someone I know. And you don’t want me to know about it. Why? Someone I dislike? Fairly wide pool of suspects, but you’re rather bad at keeping in touch, so it’s someone you’ve seen recently. Anderson? Are you having a drink with Anderson?”

John sighed. So much for keeping a secret from Sherlock Holmes.

“John! Really?” Sherlock made a face of outrage and betrayal.

“Not just him! And Lestrade, probably some of the other guys.”

John guiltily shifted in the direction of the door, and had to remind himself that he was perfectly within his right to go hang out with some friends if he wanted to. The part where they read explicit fan fiction about Sherlock was slightly more morally dubious, but Sherlock hadn’t deduced that yet. 

“See ya,” John said, legging it.

“I weep for the IQ in that room!” Sherlock yelled after him.

“If only you knew,” John said under his breath as he swung open the front door and headed to the tube station.

On reaching the pub, John was surprised to see the young DI Dimmock with the rest of the group, chatting amicably with Sally Donovan.

“Have we got another new member?” John said in Lestrade’s direction as he sat down. 

“Yeah. Have you got work tomorrow?”

“No, why?”

“Good. We’re doing shots.”

“Are we or are we not over thirty-five?” John gave Lestrade his most judgmental face.

“It’s never too late, is it? And we’re making it interesting. We’re going to do a shot every time Sherlock speaks or acts in a way he never does in real life.”

“You mean like moaning?”

“Whimpering.”

“Whining.”

“No, he whines sometimes. A lot, actually. I can’t touch his pickled fingernails without him throwing a tantrum about it but he uses my laptop all the bloody time.” 

John chuckled, then stopped as he found everyone else staring at him with expressions of disgust.

“What?”

“How are you okay with living with a literal modern day witch?” Donovan asked earnestly.

“Be honest. You’re shagging, aren’t you,” said Anderson.

“I’m not gay,” John said, for the third time that day, his cheeks pinkening with frustration. 

John was saved by the tray of shots that arrived just at that moment, brought to them by the waitress who threw out an ‘enjoy’ and a wink in John’s general direction. 

“You reckon she wants to be ‘thoroughly fucked by John Watson’?”

John groaned. “Ay, come on. Why are all the bants coming at me today, what’ve I done? Who are we reading about today, then?”

“Greg,” said Anderson gleefully.

“My wish come true,” said John, as everyone lifted a shot glass from the tray in preparation. “Bring it on, then.”

___________________________________

_ thereal_moriarty _ _ posted on 25.05.10 _

**_NEW FIC: NOT MY DIVISION_ **

_ Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/Gregory Lestrade _

_ Rating: Explicit _

_ Warnings: bribery, mentions of drugs, fellacio, office sex _

_ Summary: “Why the hell should I let you onto my crime scene?”  _

_ Disclaimer: Any resemblance this may bear to real persons or situations is strictly coincidence ;) _

_ READ HERE _

___________________________________

“Very promising,” said John. “I always wondered how you two ended up working together.”

“Because he was a bloody great shag,” Lestrade said dryly. “What other reason do I need?”

“I’m going to read the fuck out of this,” John announced. “Voices and everything.”

___________________________________

_ Munching on a doughnut, Greg Lestrade clicked his ballpoint pen in quick succession as he tried to invent some investigation notes for his blasted paperwork. _

___________________________________

 

“What is it with police and doughnuts?” Lestrade complained. “I don’t eat doughnuts.”

“You had a whole box last Thursday,” pointed out Donovan.

“That was - the victim’s sister gave it to me!”

___________________________________

_ “Sir!” Cried a young constable, bursting through his door.  _

_ Lestrade jumped and tried to look official. _

_ “The man that the drug squad just pulled in is asking to see you, sir.” _

_ “That’s not my division,” Lestrade said, alarmed at the thought of taking on more work, which would require even more paperwork. _

_ “I know, but he says you’ll want to talk to him. Something about the Whitney Hills case.” _

___________________________________

“Is that a real case?”

“Yeah, it was about six years ago, wasn’t it?”

“Not my case though. I was still a wee sergeant back then. Probably Bradford’s. But Moriarty did his research alright.”

___________________________________

_ Greg grumbled internally, but he could not rightly refuse to hear out someone who might have vital information. So he finished up his work and headed down to the holding cells. _

_ Sherlock Holmes, if that was even his real name, looked to be in his late teens or early twenties. He was your regular public-school, daddy-pays-for-everything-but-doesn’t-love-me type junkie.  _

___________________________________

“Fuck me!” Anderson yelled. “That is spot on!”

John thought that was rather unfair to Sherlock, who could not possibly be a ‘regular’ anything, but decided against arguing.

___________________________________

_ Greg knew them well. He slouched, arms crossed, against the bench. Sharp, inquisitive eyes darted from beneath a thick, curly fringe. _

_ “Detective Inspector Lestrade,” said Sherlock Holmes, his voice surprisingly low. “Sorry to interrupt your breakfast, but I thought you might like to know that you have arrested the wrong man.” _

_ Greg resisted the urge to check himself for jam stains. He was a cop, dammit. And a damn good one. _

___________________________________

John stopped reading to cackle unattractively, his entire face screwed up with mirth. Lestrade scowled.

“Hey, fuck you. I am a damn good cop.”

“Have you ever solved anything without Sherlock?” John asked.

“Keep reading,” said Lestrade.

___________________________________

_ “Do you have an alibi for him?” _

_ “No. But I know that someone else was at the scene.” _

_ “How? How do you know?” _

_ Sherlock smiled, entirely unfriendly. “The same way I know your girlfriend is cheating on you, your paperwork’s mostly bullshit, and you have declined several calls from your brother.” _

___________________________________

“Oh, come on,” John stopped to say. “Sherlock’s not that mean.”

“Oh yes he is,” Donovan said incredulously.

“But -”

“Dr Watson, I had nightmares for a week after I worked with him,” said Dimmock.

“Admit it, Watson, your boyfriend is a menace,” said Anderson.

“Not my - oh for fuck’s sake.”

___________________________________

_ “Listen up now,” said Greg, his temper flaring. “I don’t know who you are but you can’t make allegations like these without proof. And my personal life is none of your business.” _

_ Sherlock was utterly unmoved. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. And it could be.” _

_ “What?” _

_ “It could be my business.” _

_ Greg blinked, unsure if that was a come-on or if he was imagining things. Sherlock Holmes somehow managed to look at him through his lashes, his posture changing just slightly so that he was no longer slouching but lounging. _

___________________________________

“Think you’re going to give it to him good, Greg?” John said, grinning. “Show him what a good cop you are?”

“You’re under arrest,” said Greg.

___________________________________

_ “Look, this is not my division,” said Greg (again), feeling as though he was quickly losing control of the situation. “Whatever grade heroine you’re on -” _

_ “Cocaine!” Corrected Sherlock, looking insulted. _

_ “Not any better. Anyway, I’m going to get someone else to deal with your hallucinations…” _

___________________________________

“You’re being very professional about this, Greg,” said Dimmock. “I thought there’d at least be a bit of groping at this point.”

“Let it be known that even in porn stories I am a man of morals,” said Lestrade, nodding.

___________________________________

_ “Inspector, wait,” said Sherlock, rising smoothly to his feet. “Perhaps we have gotten off on the wrong foot. Just give me five minutes on the scene and I’ll prove to you that the DNA evidence you have of Arthur Jones was planted.” _

_ “Why the hell should I let you onto my crime scene?” _

_ “For justice?” Sherlock blinked rapidly in what was probably supposed to be enticement, but only succeeded in looking like a confused owl. _

_ Greg laughed. “Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes.” _

_ Those sharp eyes followed Greg the entire way as he left the holding cells. _

___________________________________

“He left!” Yelped Anderson. “What are you doing, Greg?”

“We were promised gay sex, and we don’t see any gay sex,” said Dimmock, banging his fist on the tabletop.

“I’m working up to it, alright?” Said Lestrade. “A shot to ease the pain?”

“A shot,” everyone agreed, throwing it back heartily.

___________________________________

_ His girlfriend  _ was _ cheating on him. With his brother. Greg stormed out of their flat with a bundle of hastily scraped together belongings, intending to rough it out for a few nights at the office. Not that he didn’t live there 80% of the time anyway. As his car pulled up at New Scotland Yard, however, his eyes were drawn to a tall silhouette leaning against the wall. _

_ Sherlock Holmes flicked the ash off the tip of his cigarette with an expert twist of his wrists. _

___________________________________

“Who twists their wrists when they flick a cigarette?” Said Lestrade. “Moriarty has never had a smoke in his life, has he?”

“Why are we assuming Moriarty is a man?” Donovan pointed out.

Lestrade shrugged. “The way he writes? Quite manly, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” said John. “All that macho gay sex.”

___________________________________

_ “Why are you still here?” Greg asked, feeling tired. _

_ Sherlock gave him a small smile. _

___________________________________

“A shot!” Yelled Anderson. “Sherlock never gives ‘small smiles’! He’s got the psychopath grin and holier-than-thou smirk, that’s the whole range of his smiles!”

“Wait a minute,” said John, thinking of the many small smiles Sherlock had given him when he found John’s idiocy particularly amusing.

“No,” said Donovan, holding up her finger. She took the shot, and added, “Doesn’t count if you’re the only one that can speak for its existence.”

John huffed, feeling very discriminated against. 

___________________________________

_ “Are you feeling any more inclined to listen to me, Inspector?” _

_ “No,” said Greg shortly, pushing open the door. _

_ Sherlock dropped the cigarette, ground it under his toe, and followed him. _

_ “Anything I can do to change that?” _

_ “Why do you care about this, huh? Arthur Jones your boyfriend?” Greg asked, thinking of the middle-aged suspect with thinning hair. _

_ “No-uh, no. I don’t have a boyfriend,” stumbled Sherlock, turning pink. _

___________________________________

“Shot!”

___________________________________

_ “Right. So why?” Asked Lestrade as he unlocked his office door and let himself in. _

_ Sherlock shrugged, the careless petulance of it making him look even younger. _

_ “It’s a hobby of mine.” _

_ “What hobby?” _

_ “Being right about things.” _

___________________________________

“And if that isn’t Sherlock through and through,” said Lestrade, clapping.

“Brilliant,” agreed John. 

___________________________________

_ “Cocaine and being right.” Lestrade raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “Fun hobbies, kid.” _

_ “I’m twenty-seven.” _

_ “You’re kidding me.” Lestrade dropped his stuff on his desk and turned around to stare at Sherlock, who stood there, being twenty-seven. Very unconvincingly. _

_ Sherlock sighed stroppily. _

___________________________________

“Shot?” Said Dimmock.

“No, no,” Lestrade said. “He sighs stroppily. Wankily, pissily, all of it.”

___________________________________

_ “Does that make me more credible in your eyes, Inspector?” _

_ “Not really,” said Greg. “I’d expect a man of twenty-seven to have better hobbies.” _

_ “I do have a third hobby.” _

_ “Yeah?” _

_ “Sucking dick.” _

___________________________________

“WHAT THE FUCK?” Lestrade shouted, as John dropped his head to the table laughing so hard he could no longer sit straight, and Anderson and Donovan clinked their shot glasses together. “What the fuck?!”

“Oh man,” said Dimmock, red in the face. “Oh, man.”

“Give a bloke some warning, John!” Said Lestrade. “How do you just drop a bombshell like that?”

“Just slipping it into casual conversation,” John choked out, his voice strangled with all the giggles he was failing to suppress. “I need a break from reading this, I physically can’t. Sally, you want a go?”

“I always carry the heaviest burdens around here,” said Sally, and cleared her throat.

___________________________________

_ “Sorry?” Greg spluttered, certain that he was hearing things. _

_ “Don’t be sorry, Inspector,” said Sherlock. “It’s quite enjoyable. I find it rather soothing. It clears my mind.” _

_ “R-right.” Greg hurriedly rounded his desk and sat down in his chair before Sherlock could see his unfortunate bodily reactions. _

_ “I’m very good.” _

_ “You.” Greg cleared his throat. “Why are you telling me this? I’m not gay.” _

___________________________________

“Shame on you, Greg, stealing John’s line,” tutted Donovan.

“Don’t bring me into this,” said John.

___________________________________

_ “What does that matter?” Said Sherlock. “Would you care to make me a wager, Inspector?” _

_ “I think not.” _

_ “But I’m very persistent. As you may have noticed. Let me suck you off - and if you last more than five minutes, then I’ll never bother you again.” _

_ “And if I don’t?” _

_ “Five minutes on your crime scene. I’ll solve your case.” Sherlock shrugged again. “You win either way. It’s a very good deal, Inspector.”  _

_ Sherlock leaned across the desk, resting his weight on his forearms, a wicked smirk pulling at his lips. Greg found it difficult to think of a reason why this was wrong, except for the nagging feeling that it was wrong. _

_ “You don’t have to say yes. Just don’t say no.” _

_ “Alright,” said Greg, and then his eyes widened as he realised what he said. Yet he could not entirely regret it. _

_ Sherlock neatly hopped over the desk. Must be nice to have legs that long. He pushed Greg’s chair back a little with a hand on either side of Greg’s shoulders, not even touching him, and Greg’s pulse was already racing. Sherlock folded himself neatly on his knees in the space between the footwell and Greg’s spread thighs, and Greg found himself saying hello to a heart attack. _

_ “Relax. I don’t bite.” _

_ Unless I want you to? Greg’s mind added cornily. _

___________________________________

“You would do that, though,” said John, laughing at Lestrade. “Being an utter arse when someone’s going to give you a blowie.”

“Why does everyone assume I’m bad at sex?” Grouched Lestrade.

“Cos your girlfriends keep cheating on you?” Said Dimmock mildly.

“OHHH!” Shouted Anderson. “That is not on!”

“Draw the fucking line somewhere, Steve!” John said.

Dimmock took a shot in fairly insincere apology, and Donovan pressed on with the tale.

___________________________________

_ “You can time it if you like,” Sherlock reminded him. “You won’t believe me if I tell you how long it’s been.” _

_ Sherlock smoothed his hands up Greg’s thighs as he fumbled with the timer on his phone. He almost dropped it when the moment he managed to press the button, Sherlock’s palm pressed firmly against his bulging crotch. _

_ “Doesn’t count if you keep using your hands,” Greg managed, more breathlessly than he would have liked. _

_ Sherlock grinned, deftly unbuckling Greg’s jeans and pulling down the zipper. Then he very deliberately clasped his hands behind his back, raising his eyebrows pointedly. The sass. He pressed his nose against Greg’s thin cotton boxers and groaned against the straining bulge. _

___________________________________

John shifted in his seat, surreptitiously crossing his legs. It wasn’t  _ gay _ but he did like a good blowjob. From a girl. Who has tits.

___________________________________

_ With the time constraints he was trying to beat, Sherlock certainly took his fucking time being a tease. He nudged and mouthed Greg through his boxers, thoroughly ruining his pants. Greg stuffed a fist in his mouth, staring down at the curly head in his lap, and tried to remember to breathe. _

_ The first touch of lips to skin made him grunt. Greg curled his free hand around the seat of the chair and grabbed on for dear life. Sherlock’s tongue was in the picture now, swirling around the bulbous head and paying special attention to that sensitive spot on the underside. But that was nothing, he decided, when Sherlock suddenly swallowed him all the way to the root, and lifted his eyes as though in search of praise for it. _

_ “That’s very good,” he admitted. _

_ Sherlock purred. _

___________________________________

“Shot!”

Everyone clinked.

“How does a person purr?” Asked John, to cover up his embarrassing little (but not that little) problem. “It’s not physically possible.”

“Maybe it goes, ‘bururururur,’” said Dimmock, thoroughly butchering the sound.

John gave him a look of disgust. “Mate, have you  _ ever _ seen a cat?”

___________________________________

_ The vibrations felt so fucking good on his cock that Greg couldn’t help but jerk his hips forward, something that all his exes had strictly forbidden. Sherlock, of course, had no such problem. He simply swallowed him down further, bobbing his head rhythmically, the first two inches of Greg’s cock squeezing into the tight heat of Sherlock’s throat with every thrust. No one could fucking last five minutes on this. He’d been duped. _

_ With all his effort, Greg pulled himself back, pausing his pistoning hips to pant in predicted defeat. Sherlock drew back, his lips stretched around the head of Greg’s cock, licking and licking daintily around the top like it was an ice cream cone. His eyes were closed, his eyelashes fluttering. He really did enjoy this, it seemed. From this angle, he looked alarmingly delicate, pretty, even. _

_ Sherlock’s eyes opened, pupils blown wide with arousal as he grinned around his heavy mouthful. Greg was a goner. As Sherlock began to bob up and down again, Greg just screwed his eyes closed and tried not to lose it quite so embarrassingly. _

_ “Four minutes, forty-two seconds,” Sherlock announced as Greg was still gasping for breath. “If you would like to count the six seconds you took to recuperate, I’ll still be winning. I’ve put my number in your phone. Text me tomorrow and I’ll come look at the crime scene. Excellent doing business with you.” _

_ “Business?” Greg mouthed incredulously.  _

_ Sherlock waved a hand. “Sex business. Fellacio. Very enjoyable time. I’ll probably need a look at your case files too - who know what details your forensics might have missed?” _

_ Greg thought he must be talking to a different creature to the one who had just been on his knees there. Slightly pissed off, he remarked, “I don’t have to let you. We didn’t shake on it or anything.” _

_ Sherlock grinned. He leaned over the table, long fingers zipping Greg’s trousers up. _

_ “Oh, we have a far more intimate agreement, Inspector, don’t you think?” _

_ Straightening, he turned to the door, threw a wink over his shoulder, and said, “See you tomorrow, Inspector.” _

_ Then he was gone. Greg sat there for quite a while, gaping like an idiot fish. He was in very, very much trouble. _

___________________________________

“My, my,” said Sally, putting down the phone to clap her hands together. “I could almost believe that’s how it happened.”

“That’s 200% how it happened,” said John.

“That is not how it happened,” said Greg.

“That ending bit was very Sherlock,” said Dimmock. Everyone stared at him. “It was. I know I only met him once, but the man has a  _ personality _ .”

“Shut up, Steve.”

“You lot are very grumpy buggers,” Dimmock complained. “I’m not coming back.”

“Yes you will. Where else will you find such stellar entertainment?”

“You do beat Eastenders,” Dimmock agreed. “Well. To friendship?”

“Don’t be a sissy, Steve. To Sherlock’s epic blowie.”

“To sum up the evening: Greg can’t sex, Sherlock is a slag, and Steve is not a feline expert.”

“Pretty much.”

“Pretty much.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really digging the fact that I have 6699 words right now.


	3. You Are Important To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NEW FIC: You Are Important To Me
> 
> Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
> 
> Rating: Mature
> 
> Warnings: het, PWP, fluff, sex in a morgue
> 
> Summary: When Molly finally puts her foot down, the results are unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading for the Sherlolly, I'm SO SORRY I am BAD at it.   
> This chapter veers into a bit of angst. It was bound to happen at some point.

“Who’s Molly Hooper?”

“Oh! Molly! She’s the pathologist at Barts. She does your autopsies.”

“M. Hooper is a girl?” Lestrade said, unnecessarily shocked.

“Yeah,” said John. “Don’t be sexist. What, girls can’t be pathologists?”

“No, not what I meant at all,” said Lestrade. “I just - assumed. Anyway. She’s in the latest Moriarty story. All the other stories have been with men, you know - the Mycroft one, the Anderson one - and we assumed that Moriarty wasn’t into girls.”

“Making a lot of assumptions, aren’t we?” John folded his arms and gave Lestrade a stern look.

“Shut up,” said Lestrade without heat.

Anderson, Donovan, and Dimmock got back from the bar, carrying pints for the table. 

“Anyway, I’m quite excited to be reading about a girl for once,” said Lestrade. 

“Not me,” said Anderson. “It isn’t any less disturbing thinking about Sherlock having sex with a girl than with a guy.”

“The plot seems less dubious, too,” said Donovan.

___________________________________

_ NEW FIC: You Are Important To Me _

_ Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper _

_ Rating: Mature _

_ Warnings: het, PWP, fluff, sex in a morgue _

_ Summary: When Molly finally puts her foot down, the results are unexpected. _

_ Disclaimer: Any resemblance this may bear to real persons or situations is strictly coincidence ;) _

_ READ HERE _

___________________________________

“Steve. You seem like you would read a female voice well.”

Dimmock pulled up the story, shrugging. “Is it my caring nature?”

“No, it’s yer mug, mate.”

___________________________________

_ “Three left feet.” _

_ Molly jumped. Great. She had prioritised fifteen more minutes of sleep over washing her hair this morning, and now Mr Tall-Fit-and-Arrogant was back to terrorise her morgue. Well, she was the only person in here who could still be terrorised, but you know. _

_ “Hello, Sherlock.” She squeaked. Yeah, she had gotten over despairing how her voice sounded whenever she talked to him. Sherlock probably thought that was just her natural sound range, sounding like a landed dolphin. _

_ “I require three left feet, as fresh as possible. Please.” He smiled. _

_ It was a perfunctory smile, but Molly still swooned a little. _

___________________________________

“Okay, stop right there,” said Donovan. “What is the matter with this girl? Does she need meds? Glasses? Has she  _ met _ Sherlock Holmes?”

“Molly has a massive crush on Sherlock,” said John. “It’s true.”

The entire table stared at him in enormous shock.

“What? You lot are so bloody biased. Sherlock’s a fit bloke.”

“Yeah, for the first five seconds. And then he  _ talks _ .”

“Well, Molly likes it.”

“God bless her,” Lestrade muttered.

___________________________________

_ “Right, haha, well, I’ll see what I can do.” _

_ “Molly,” said Sherlock, shaking his curls purposefully. “I’ve a very important case on. The feet in question will help me solve the murder of a seventy-three year old woman with  _ three cats. _ ” _

_ What had cats got to do with it? Molly wondered. She thought about it, and realised with horror that Sherlock was trying to MANIPULATE HER. WITH CATS. _

___________________________________

“ _ No, _ ” said John, his voice thick with sarcastic outrage. “Not with  _ cats _ .”

“There’s just some places you don’t go, and using innocent fluffy animals to your gory body-part snatching ends is one of them.”

___________________________________

_ “How was she murdered?” Molly asked, testing her theory. _

_ “Two individuals broke into her house, stole her jewelry and two of the cats, and poisoned the woman, making it look like a natural death. The goons at Scotland Yard would have called it an open-and-shut case if I hadn’t pointed out that she obviously owned three cats.” _

_ Well. That did sound like the kind of case Sherlock would be on. Except...why wouldn’t she have received the old woman at her morgue if there really was such a case? _

_ “That’s horrible. Was it today?” _

_ “No, two days ago,” said Sherlock dismissively. “So I urgently need your help. The cats, Lulu and Mimi, are depending on you.” _

_ “AHA!” Said Molly. “Called your bullshit!” _

_ Sherlock looked alarmed. “Excuse me?” _

_ “If the victim was suspected to have died of poisoning and was processed two days ago, she would be here by now.” Molly pointed to the morgue around them. “Also, Lulu and Mimi?” _

_ “Are those not cat names?” _

_ “Not of any self-respecting person, and I doubt  _ you  _ would know the names of two kidnapped cats.” _

___________________________________

“I’m starting to like this Molly character now,” said Donovan.

“Me too,” said Lestrade.

“She _ is  _ a real person,” John reminded them.

“Can I have her number then?” Asked Dimmock with interest. 

“You think you’re competition for Sherlock Holmes?”

“I’ll give him a run for his money,” said Dimmock, brushing his hair back exaggeratedly. “I might not have the looks, but I’ve got some moves.”

“Steve,” said Donovan, shaking her head. “Stop.”

___________________________________

_ Sherlock reeled back and stared at Molly like he’d never seen her before. _

_ “Your lipstick is rather pleasing today,” he said, after an interval. _

_ “No, flattery isn’t going to work either,” said Molly, feeling bold, but blushing profusely as she said it. _

_ “Well, what do you want of me, Molly?” Sherlock said, low and seductive. _

_ He was totally doing it on purpose, Molly thought as she melted into a puddle of goo. Horrible, horrible boy.  _

_ “I want you to treat me like I actually matter,” she said bravely, her voice wavering. _

_ “Molly,” said Sherlock, looking genuinely shocked. “Of course you matter.” _

___________________________________

“This story is the healthiest one yet. With all the incest, hate sex, bribery and fetish, I didn’t know thereal_moriarty had it in them. Do you think they got a promotion recently or something?” Wondered Donovan.

Everyone looked at the recently promoted Dimmock thoughtfully.

“Hey! I didn’t even know Sherlock until after I got promoted!”

“We don’t know what you do with your life. You could be a stalker.”

“Stop breaking rule two,” said Lestrade, with the air of a long running argument. “You know what happens when we break rule two.”

___________________________________

_ “You really think so?” Molly asked softly. _

_ “Of course. You’re very important to me.” _

_ “Prove it,” Molly blurted out before she could think better. _

_ Molly and Sherlock stared at each other for a moment, the tension building in the quiet room. _

___________________________________

“This is the problem with heterosexual stories,” said Donovan, wrinkling her nose. “All the staring. Why do they assume we ladies are all raving for the eye contact?”

“Your love of missionary?” Anderson muttered under his breath, earning himself a sharp elbow to the guts.

___________________________________

_ “Very well,” Sherlock breathed, and bent down to kiss her. _

___________________________________

“Ayyy! Sherlock’s first snog with a girl, probably!” 

They drank to it. As John upended his pint, he caught a flash of a familiar blue-on-black smudge, and thought he was seeing things. He put down the glass hurriedly, and found that he was, in fact, looking at Sherlock Holmes, in the flesh, standing right next to their table, expression unreadable. John jumped a mile.

“Sherlock!” 

“What are you doing here?”

“Certainly not to enjoy your company, Anderson,” Sherlock said crisply, hovering at the edge of the table. “John. Have you lost your phone?”

“No?” Said John, reaching into his pocket. Lo and behold, he had NINE unread texts from Sherlock Holmes.

_ So Very Bored. -SH _

_ Have you abandoned me for the Scotland Yard delinquents again? -SH _

_ I disapprove, John. -SH _

_ Mrs Hudson has hidden my skull again. -SH _

_ Will you come back and help me find it? -SH _

_ It’s very important. -SH _

_ Are you safe? -SH _

_ Text me something to let me know you’re alright. -SH _

_ JOHN! -SH _

“I forgot to check my phone,” said John after scrolling through the messages. “I’m fine. Sorry about that.”

“Hm,” said Sherlock, looking up and down their table suspiciously, while its occupants tried to look innocent.

“Have a seat, Sherlock. Have a pint. How are you doing?” Said Lestrade, budging in closer to John to make space for Sherlock.

Sherlock, surprisingly, sat. He did not have a pint, however, but folded his hands under his chin and stared at Anderson, Donovan, and Dimmock across the table. It felt rather like Darth Vader had sat down with a squad of Stormtroopers on their night off.

“Can I borrow your phone, Lestrade?” He said abruptly.

“Uh, no,” said Lestrade. “I mean, it’s out of battery.”

“Sally?” Sherlock prompted with a frightful smile.

Donovan shook her head. Sherlock turned and stared at Dimmock, his eyes boring into the younger man with frightening intensity until Dimmock slowly pushed his phone across the table.

“No-” Anderson started to say, before Donovan elbowed him and shook her head, resigned.

Sherlock took the phone, holding Dimmock’s gaze, and tapped in the four-digit passcode without asking. The blog page of thereal_moriarty showed up bright as day, and there was a moment of discernable surprise on Sherlock’s face before he began to read. Everyone watched him with the fascination of witnessing a natural disaster. Only five seconds passed, however, before Sherlock’s face contorted with disgust and he looked up at them furiously.

“We didn’t write it,” Dimmock said hurriedly. “We don’t know who did. We just found it on the internet. Or rather, they did.” He gestured at the rest of the table. “I’ve only joined in twice.”

“Grasser!” Anderson whispered vehemently.

“There’s  _ more _ ?” Said Sherlock, stunned. He bent his head and fiddled with Dimmock’s phone some more, paused, and began to scan the page.

“What’s he doing?” Anderson muttered, as though Sherlock could possibly not hear him.

“Reading the one about John,” replied Lestrade, with an undercurrent of are-you-fucking-kidding-me.

John’s stomach did a couple of mortified flip flops, and he buried his face in his pint glass.

“So you’re really gay then?” Said Anderson, with a hint of glee.

Sherlock gave him a withering glance. John was ready to tell Anderson to leave him alone, but as Sherlock dipped his head to continue reading, he added, “Has that not been obvious?”

The silence in their little corner of pub grew instantly stifling. Sherlock looked up again.

“Have you all learned  _ nothing _ from watching me work?” He asked disbelievingly.

“You don’t add ‘by the way I’m gay’ to the end of your deductions,” said Donovan.

“Neither do I say I prefer blue scarfs, have you not noticed that, either?” Sherlock tilted his head pointedly towards the blue bundle beside him.

He looked back down at the story with furrowed brow, ignoring the silence of the rest of the table as he scrolled down with his thumb. Then his cheeks suddenly grew pink, darkening to an even deeper shade as he continued, and John stared at him open-mouthed, no question as to which part of the story Sherlock had progressed to.

Unfortunately, Anderson chose that moment to voice everyone’s thoughts. 

“Are you  _ blushing _ ?”

“No,” said Sherlock.

“That’s a big fat lie!”

The table burst out laughing.

“This is incredible,” said Donovan. “We were so right, it’s true love.”

In the midst of the hilarity, Sherlock’s face turned to stone. He dropped the phone, wound his blue scarf around his neck, and swept from the room without a backward glance. Gut twisting, John shoved past Greg and rushed after him, just catching Sherlock outside the door.

“Sherlock! Are you okay?”

“Okay?” Sherlock echoed incredulously, spinning to face him. John almost cringed at the blazing eyes in Sherlock’s otherwise unreadable face. “Yes. Fine. A small matter, a mistake on my part.”

“What?”

“That of having grossly miscalculated the strength of our, acquaintance,” said Sherlock, waving a hand between them.

“Acquaintance? I- what- Sherlock, we’re friends.” John’s statement sounded unintentionally like a question.

Sherlock gave a short bark of mirthless laughter. “No, John.  _ Freakish _ as my nature may be, even I understand that one’s  _ friends _ do not join one’s enemies in mocking them.”

“We didn’t mean any harm.” John was alarmed at how pleading, how whining his words came out.

“Didn’t you?” Sherlock said coldly, turning up his collar. “Do me a favour, John. Don’t return to Baker Street tonight. I’m sure one of your friends wouldn’t mind you crashing for the night.”

Sherlock walked away, his tall figure in his long coat too intimidating for John to dare further embarrass himself by running after him. Guilt twisted in his gut, dark, thick, and heavy, pouring over all the mirth he had found in this little game. He watched Sherlock walk to the end of the street, long strides carrying him quickly away, and then turned back into the pub, trying not to let his distraught show on his face. 

“Alright?” Said Lestrade, looking up.

“Yeah,” John lied. “Listen, I gotta go.”

“Betraying the club?” Lestrade joked, but it fell flat.

“I think the time has come, mate,” John said, smiling tightly.

The Lion’s Head was only a ten minute walk from Baker Street. Despite Sherlock’s request that he stay away, John was very much aware that he had said nothing at all to the guys at the pub, and his feet were carrying him along the familiar path back home. Home. He had never thought of the bedsit, where he had resided before meeting Sherlock, as home. It was not so much that the bedsit had been shit. He had been connected to nothing then, alone and afloat in a world where he was no longer useful, no longer even John Watson. 

He had been a right arse, hadn’t he? Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan, and Dimmock, they weren’t Sherlock’s friends, they were only colleagues, and ones who did not like him too much, at that. John may have had no ill will in reading the ridiculous stories about his posh, uptight roommate, but that wasn’t how the others saw it. In front of them Sherlock always tried to be untouchable, invincible, and this was their way of flipping the bird to him. They had told John right at the start, but he hadn’t listened, had he? Their animosity had been there all along, and Sherlock, sensitive-but-would-die-rather-than-admit-it Sherlock, felt it a thousand times more keenly than John’s emotionally stunted self. 

What was worse - God, so much worse - was that Sherlock  _ was  _ gay, and that adorable blush as he read the story about him and John told John all he needed to know on that regard. The others had seen it too, had joked about it to Sherlock’s face. He must have been mortified.  _ You stupid, stupid, stupid bastard, _ John told himself, lifting both hands to cover his face in shame. 

John circled the street around 221B several times, struggling to decide the best course of action. He needed to apologise - he wasn’t good at that, but he was composing one in his head. He didn’t know if it was better to go and apologise now, or do as Sherlock said and come back the next day. He could grovel, John thought. Jesus, he was Sherlock’s  _ only _ friend, and he’d been a right royal dumbass. He had to let Sherlock know that it had been in no way his intention to hurt him.

The urgency of John’s feelings propelled him to the doorstep of 221 Baker Street, and he let himself in before he could think better of it.

Sherlock sat in his armchair in the dark, his face illuminated only by the light of his phone. He looked up as John opened the door, the movement accompanied by an unmistakable sniff, and John’s heart dropped all the way to the floor, ripped into a million pieces, and was eaten by rabid dogs.

“Oh God, Sherlock, I’m so sorry,” he blurted out, dropping to his knees on the carpet by Sherlock’s chair. “I’m such an arse, God, please don’t cry.”

Sherlock scoffed and looked away, his shoulders tense for a moment before he let out a heartbreakingly dejected sigh, his body sinking back into the armchair.

“Well, it was good while it lasted. No hard feelings, John.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“You’re back to pack your bags. No other possible reason you could be back when I explicitly asked you not to.”

“NO!” John said. “That’s not it at all! Not even if you wanted me to, actually. Look, Sherlock, I-”

John clammed up, heart pounding, as Sherlock obligingly turned to look at him. There were tears shining in Sherlock’s eyes, god damn it, and John felt like the worst person in the world.

“I’ve been a terrible friend. The worst. But I’m still your friend, if you’ll have me. I’m really sorry. Sherlock - you’re the most important thing to me.”

“Why are you saying this?” Said Sherlock, sounding mildly alarmed.

“Because it’s true.” Feeling slightly emboldened, John reached out and squeezed Sherlock’s arm. “I had an apology speech when I walked in the door, but it’s kind of gone out the window now. Um. Give me a second.”

“Take your time,” Sherlock said faintly.

John took a large breath. “Sherlock. You’re. The best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Sherlock made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a moose being strangled.

“When I met you, I was so alone. And I owe you so much. I wouldn’t have met any of the guys at Scotland Yard if not for you, and when they showed me the stories, I really thought it was just lighthearted fun. I was wrong, okay? It’s my fault. I would...read anything, if it was about you. I’m quite. Obsessed with you. And unless you bodily throw me out the door, you’re not getting rid of me.”

John stopped. He stared at the carpet, to whom he had delivered his monologue. Then he looked up at Sherlock.

“How’s that?”

Sherlock stared at him for long enough that John swallowed nervously.

“Just one question.”

“Yes?”

“Is it really so... _ funny _ , to think of you and I, like that?” Sherlock asked softly.

The question hit John in the face like a fucking lorry. He straightened, heart pounding through his chest.

“No. No it’s not,” said John, and pulled Sherlock down to kiss him.

Sherlock’s lips barely touched John’s before he was rearing away.

“What are you doing?”

“Sorry,” said John, mortified.

“You’re not gay.”

“Good point there,” said John, dipping his head. “However…”

“What? However what?” Said Sherlock sharply.

“I might be a bit bi?”

Sherlock looked like he was about to have a seizure. John took his pulse, concerned, and found it racing like Sherlock had just ran a sprint.

“Er,” said John, rubbing his thumb against Sherlock’s pulse point uncertainly. “What do I do now?”

Sherlock leaned down, elbows on his knees, bringing his face within breathing distance of John’s lips.

“You could kiss me if you like,” he said, voice low and so deep John’s pants started having a field day.

John did. He kissed that amazing, wonderful man, kissed him and kissed him until he was surprised to find himself straddling Sherlock’s lap when they finally pulled apart, gasping. 

“That was -” John said.

“Brilliant,” Sherlock finished. “Extraordinary. Amazing.”

John laughed. Sherlock gave him that small fond smile, the one that no one else had even  _ seen _ , and John was so fucking annoyed with himself for having been so blind that he had to hide his face in Sherlock’s curls and breathe. His arms wandered around Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock’s around his waist, and they sat there like that for quite a while, each breathing in the other.

And John promised himself not to be quite such a dickhead again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me my friends, I am a Johnlocker at heart :p  
> Back to our regular programme of pairing Sherlock with weird people next time, as Sherlock joins in to find out who exactly is writing all these AWFUL things about him.


End file.
